Alone
by Bishie Huntress
Summary: Ed is feeling alone.


Alone. Broken. These words enter me, filling me until I'm drowning. There is nothing but the darkness surrounding me. I fall for an eternity, landing in the sweaty tangle of sheets that strangle my legs as I fall out of bed, heaving for air and desperate for the solidity of the floor under my fingers. I press my face against the cool wooden floorboards and feel air rush into me, cleaning me out with each breath of fresh spring air from the window I forgot to close. I don't open my eyes until my blood is no longer a thundering mass in my head. That's when I realize my head isn't the only thing thundering in the early morning.

I pull a faded cotton shirt over my head, grimacing at the way it sticks to my sweaty skin, and pause long enough to grab a hair tie. I drag my unruly hair into an unwilling ponytail low on my neck as I hurry to the door. The banging is getting louder, and I'm worried the neighbors will complain. I'm already in trouble with the landlord for keeping them up with my experiments.

"I'm coming, already!" I grumble, rushing down the hallway. In my haste, I nearly crash into the small table piled with open books and papers. That would be a mess I don't want to deal with anytime soon.

I flip on the porch light and pull the door open, an irritated _what_ _is it?! _hovering on my lips, but the words die before I can breathe life into them. Roy Mustang is standing there, looking weary and distraught, and the whole scene is just so _wrong_ that it's moments before I can think of the words to say.

In the end, all I can say is, "Come in." He does, and I lead him to the living room sofa, the one Al wanted to get me. I notice Mustang doesn't take off his shoes. I don't care much. He sits, and I bring him a glass of water, because I'm out of tea, and coffee stunts your growth. He doesn't complain, just drinks it down in three swallows, then holds the cup and runs his fingers over the water droplets on the outside of it.

"Well?" I say at last, impatiently. The suspense is getting to me. "Out with it! Where's Al?"

Mustang flinches and I feel the blood leave my face, my legs, my _heart. _I drop into the chair facing him. "_Where's Al?_" I ask again, dreading the answer.

Mustang doesn't look up. "He's alive," he says, and then stops again, as if he doesn't know the right words to use.

"That's good," I say with a little sigh.

"He's—he's in surgery," Mustang adds.

"What?!" I jump up. "You promised he'd be safe! You said this was a routine mission! You said—"

"I know what I said, Fullmetal!" Mustang snaps, looking up, finally. His eyes are haunted.

"Ed," I say, feeling lost. "It's Ed." I drop back into the chair. "Where… where is he?" I manage, the words coming hard past the lump of worry in my throat.

"He's in Xing," Mustang answers. "Emperor Ling himself contacted us to let us know. His finest specialists are taking care of Alphonse."

I stand up and start pacing across the little room. Xing isn't somewhere I can be in a couple hours. It's a long journey, across the desert and… My mind draws a blank.

"How do I get there?" I ask.

"Ed…"

I whirl on Mustang, startling him. "How do I get there," I growl. I'm surprised by the sound of my own voice. Even Mustang is taken aback.

"You can't," he says. "The border has been closed because of the terrorist attacks."

"Ling will let me in," I say, confident.

"_We_ closed the border," Mustang says.

"Then you do something. You can get me over there." He has to.

"I can't," he says instead.

"Bull! You have all kinds of contacts. That's what you do!"

Mustang stands. "I _can't_, Ed. I've tried!" He runs his hands through bedraggled hair in frustration. "Don't you think I've tried?" he says, and I'm surprised to hear the helplessness in his voice.

I drop into my chair again, my head falling against the back of it, and I stare up at the ceiling. "What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Wait," Mustang says. It is not the answer I want to hear. "I gave the emperor your telephone number so he could reach you here with any more news, but I –" He clears his throat. "I thought I should be the one to let you know."

Suddenly it occurs to me just how guilty Mustang is feeling about this, just how much responsibility he's trying to take on for the whole situation.

"Thanks," I tell him, and I mean it. I can still remember a time when I thought all he looked out for was himself, and looking back, I can't believe how blind I was, how naïve. "You know us Elrics," I say, trying for some levity, "can't leave well enough alone."

Mustang just does this little half-smile thing. It's sad more than anything else, and he just ends up looking rather pathetic. He runs a hand through his hair again and sighs, then sits back down on the edge of the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Do you…" he starts, and pauses. After a moment, he tries again. "Do you mind if I wait with you? I'd really like to know if—I mean…" Mustang falters a bit, but I get it.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll get you a blanket. Are you hungry?"

Mustang shakes his head, and as I get up, I see his gaze wander over to the books. I smile a little as I go to find an extra blanket. The night ahead promises to be long and stressful, but at least I won't be alone. Perhaps I never was.


End file.
